A Little Scrap of Metal

It was only a scrap of metal. It meant absolutely nothing to anybody else, and until the day he wrapped it forcibly round his middle finger, it meant absolutely nothing to him either. But as he wound it around, just above the knuckle, it fit perfectly into place.

This ordinary scrap of metal, so imperfect and flawed, that other people wouldn’t accept it, didn’t understand it. It came from nothing, it was nothing, and yet it was there, every day, the obvious blemish on an already blemished hand.

The top of it was jagged where the sharp edges of the metal met, vicious unlike any real ring, and unforgiving when they caught something in their teeth. It cut him often, when he forgot it was there, but he liked that. He liked that it reminded him he was alive, that it didn’t let him dream without that sharp stab back into reality. And he liked that no one else would ever hold that hand without sharing the same hurt that it made him feel.


Every day he would move that ring, twisting it round to make it safe when he dressed or washed. Spinning it as he contemplated the decisions he had to make or the problems he had to solve, feeling its vicious grip, its hold, but comforting him that still it was there. Still it rested in a place that so many others would have removed it.

It could have been anything, that little scrap of jagged metal, but it wasn’t. It was his ring. It was as old as any other, of all that had been before, and yet as new to him as the possibilities ahead. It was his reminder; of the pain, of the memories lost, of the memories yet to come. It was his constant, his keepsake. It meant absolutely everything to him.